Delicate
by DreamingOfHalcyons
Summary: Her eyes are closed, and her lips are centimeters away from his, and didn't his mother always tell him not to leave a good thing waiting?


**I had a spare hour, so enjoy :)**

* * *

He should've known that coming to a party with Lydia Martin would result in him falling a little harder for her. He also should've known he wouldn't be able to resist kissing her, after all his attempts not too.

And it wasn't like he didn't want to kiss her, because he did. It's just that he knew he shouldn't.

The love between them isn't allowed, especially not a month before leaving to go to college. They are both too soft, despite being so undeniably strong at the same time. Yes, they may selflessly go into battle against something that will almost positively kill them and take a bullet for each, for the pack. But, they're soft in the way that it still hurts when one of them is in pain and it still hurts when they lose someone close to them. They're soft in the way that all human's are.

The world around them is all chipped teeth and daggers. And soft people get scratched in a world like this.

But when Lydia jumps into his jeep wearing that mesh bodysuit which enables him to see the pretty bralette she wears underneath, and the black skinny jeans she fashions (yes, jeans, he can't believe it either), he knows that first reason not to kiss Lydia is dismissed. Just. Like. That.

"What are the chances this party is ruined by some supernatural, chaos causing, creature that suddenly appear in town?" Lydia says in passing, when they're only a few blocks away from the party.

The way she says it so lightly makes him think that maybe she isn't soft, maybe he can kiss her.

"Slim to none?" He smirks, looking over at her briefly before focusing back on the road.

"I'll bet you on it," Lydia smiles, head turning to the side so that Stiles can see her, properly see her.

She's got gold glittery eye shadow on, which shimmers in the light every time she blinks, enhancing her already bright emerald eyes. She has winged eyeliner that he knows she only spent an hour on jut so someone could compliment her. Her lips are painted a light pink, and Stiles wonders how the lipstick would look once he's kissed her.

He cannot kiss her, for she belongs in a museum, and he is merely allowed to gaze. Not touch. Never touch.

"Yeah?"

"Oh yeah," She nods, and the part of him that is reckless wants her to bet a kiss. "I bet you a Mcdoanlds on the way back home."

He can't help but laugh, because although she's intense, She never shocks him when these child-like things come from her mouth.

"Okay so if we don't make it through the night, I owe you a Mcdoanlds?" Stiles quizzes and there's a tell-tale trace of a smile on her lips.

"And if we do," Lydia shrugs. "Your wish is my command."

"Well if that's how you play Martin, be my guest." He throws her a smile when he looks at her, then pulls into a parking spot opposite the house.

He kills the engine, and looks at her as if asking if she's ready to get out. She gives herself one last glance over in the rear-view mirror, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Your makeup looks really pretty tonight." He tells her in a very soft voice, a voice that sounds like it shouldn't belong to him.

She looks at him, something in her eyes softening at the tenderness and her lips mashing together in a smile. A smile that he wants to kiss away. He feels bad for breaking the eye contact, because her gaze is too gentle and he doesn't want to be the one to tell her that all their problems can't be fixed with a smile. Because they can't.

Her eyes that holds galaxies are enough to pull him in, but he can't, for his boring brown eyes aren't a match to hers.

He pops his door open and jogs around to her side and offers her a hand. She doesn't take it.

* * *

It's not even midnight, but he's ready to go home.

He watches Lydia take a boy into a room, they don't come out for thirty minutes.

* * *

He ends up dancing next to Scott and Malia, although it's clear he's third wheeling, he pretends he's having good time.

Because he can do that.

He can drink from his beer bottle (only one though because he's driving), and sing loudly to whatever song is playing and he can enjoy. He isn't going to shatter into a million pieces, he will not drown in the sea of emotion.

He does not think of everything bad he's ever done wrong; breaking up with Malia so easily, killing Donovan, pushing Lydia further and further away from him.

She is all blue skies on a rainy day, and cherry lip-gloss kisses and he cannot watch the love run out of another's eyes when she sees him for him.

But doesn't he feel much better when he's with her? She makes his heart beat that extra faster and she makes him open his eyes, really open them.

A hand links his, and he looks down at it.

He doesn't even have to look at her face, he just knows it's her.

It's her soft pale skin, and her manicured nails that are painted red.

Red; lust, passion.

He wants, he loves.

But no-one has taught him how to love, and his rough, war-scarred hands could never hold her gently at night, they might not ever offer her comfort. But instead they might remind her of everything he's done. Every sin.

And if she saw every sin this life has made him commit, she would not handle the weight. For she would crumble, because she's too good, she's too light and too breathless to get caught up in the dizziness of his heart.

"Dance with me?" She asks, her breath hot against his ear when she reaches up to ask.

Everything about Lydia is a blessing, he knows that. But everything about him seems to be the opposite; a malediction, and someone as angelic as Lydia Martin deserves better.

"I need some air." He manages to mutter before leaving her, dropping her hand just like he just dropped her heart.

He doesn't know why he's like this, he's far too damaged to go back to how he used to be with her. But yet he still wants a relationship with her. He wants to kiss her anytime he likes, he wants to fuck her in the morning, he wants to take her out for dinners, to make her laugh, to make her smile, to make her feel happy she's alive. But all he can seem to do is think of reasons why they shouldn't be together.

Nobody has loved him as fully as Lydia has, surely he would drown in it all.

She follows him outside, because of course she would. She wants him as much as he wants her, but he knows he can't have her. It's not in the rule book.

"Stiles," She breathes, and he's forced to meet her eyes. The gentle eyes that he could get lost in. "What's wrong with you?" There's no malice in her voice, she whispers it. She wants to help. He isn't sure if he can let her.

She reaches out, curious fingers stretching out to feel his skin. She touches him like he's fragile, and if he breaks he knows he can't put himself back together. Would he rely on Lydia to do that? To fix every jagged piece back together like a puzzle, and then hug him every night just so they stayed together?

"I can't do this, Lydia."

He doesn't know what he means. He can't do anything. He can't breathe. Can't think. Can't love.

The thing is she's good, she's so good. He can't ruin her. He can't.

Her hand cups his face, and she strokes her thumb over his cheek bone. He thinks that he might cry.

"How about you get me that Mcdonald's and we talk this through?" She smiles at him.

And that's why he loves her. Because she's good. So good.

* * *

They end up eating french fries and a McFlurry outside, sat on the bonnet of his battered jeep.

"Lydia?"

She looks up at him, the stars from the night sky in her eyes.

"What were you doing with that boy?" It comes out like a sob, a strangled cry.

Because it hurts, of course it does. She's Lydia and he's Stiles, always and inevitable.

"Stiles," She sighs, and she kind of sounds sad about it. "I had to forget about you."

He looks at her, and he's taken back to the locker room when she kissed him. The gentle look on her face, the soft tone of her voice. It's always been her.

"You're so hard to read sometimes," She shakes her head, placing down her food on the side, turning to look at him. "There's days when I think you want me, and there's days where I think you don't- that you're just leading me on because you don't want to tell me so." Her eyes search his, trying hard to read his thoughts.

All he can think about is kissing her.

"I do want you Lydia," His voice is a croak, and he cups her jaw with his large hand. Asking himself if he's really going to do this. "But I'm broken."

"Let me fix you," She tells him quietly, eyes flicking down to his lips. "I wanna make you feel better on your bad days."

And maybe if he jumps she'll catch him, but would he be able to catch her? What if she tumbles through the darkness, waiting for the landing that never comes?

"Lydia." He could say her name over and over. He could let it be the only word he knows. It's music. It's poetry.

And he knows from that look in her eye, the way her body is tilted into his, that she loves him. And he loves her.

Her eyes are closed, and her lips are centimeters away from his, and didn't his mother always tell him not to leave a good thing waiting?

So he kisses her.


End file.
